Paranoid Ego

Howard gently farted under his desk as he looked
through the job postings on the internal database. A small squeak
accompanied the eruption, his Irritable Bowel Syndrome was playing
up again, crippling him physically and keeping him from his sport
and job-seeking effectiveness. His mind wandered to the moment when
he would die and whether he would regret each stinking moment of
sitting in that office. His was not a negative protest against office
work, his mind had worked out that it was probably the best thing
to do as he craved money and lifestyle. But he resented its inevitability,
the bullshitting backbiting. Most of all he resented the client
advisers for whom he worked - most of them were more stupid than
he by far. He felt displaced and fantasised about resigning and
in the inevitable departure email telling everyone that he had quit
to become an academic or be published or become a hot-shot lawyer
or advocate. Anything but a banker, where every spiv could make
a go at it and make the most intelligent of graduates feel miserable
that their potential was rotting like molten effluence in a sewage
plant.

The Tube journey truly sickened him. A fat lady of about 40
with her shoddy Next plastic bag full of cheap treats to make
her feel better about her essentially shit existence, answered
her mobile. Like a timid mouse she squeaked into the phone irrelevant
comforts to whichever poor amoebic entity desired to know the
welfare of this sack of insecurity. I'm in the tube at West
Brompton, yeah, about 5 minutes...suddenly, Howard lost it,
he wrenched the phone from her fat paw and yelled 'CUNT' into
the receiver, then bashed the woman in the mouth with it until
the case broke and the battery went flying. She looked up in
horror, arms flailing, mouth frothing with blood and broken
skin...Howard started, as if from a dream. She was still there,
piping 'hello, hello' into the useless contraption as the train
went under the tunnel. One of these days, it would be hard to
sort the fantasy from the reality...Howard was one of those
sick people who murdered people in their dreams. It is impossible
to stretch true morality in the dream world (though one's sexuality
tends to) and Howard found that these last couple of years his
dream world had become depraved beyond belief. Surely it would
be a matter of time before the dream grasped the reality by
the neck and demanded action...

Anon

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